


Fences

by theheadandthekin



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Humor, Introspection, Masturbation, Roommates, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 17:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5173367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheadandthekin/pseuds/theheadandthekin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things that Abbie Mills cannot unknow. Living under the same roof, well, boundaries are bound to be blurred.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Tumblr.

The first time it happened, she didn’t think anything of it. They’d sat side-by-side on the couch, Crane trying to teach her some kind of 18th century card game. That lasted only until it became clear his memory would allow him to win every damn round. She called him on it and challenged him to Jenga instead.

He lost. Spectacularly. She laughed.

“Grab another couple beers, and I’ll clean this up.” She scooted off the couch and got down on all fours on the rug, stretching to reach the blocks under the coffee table.

“Lieutenant?”

“Huh? We out?” She lifted her head to look at him over the arm of the couch. He was hovering near the fridge, but not close enough to have opened it. His fingers twitched at his side.

“I think … I think I shall to bed.”

“What?” Abbie furrowed her brow. “You don’t want to play again?

He glanced toward the stairs and opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it again.  

He wasn’t that sore a loser, was he, flouncing off to his room like a teenager? No, she took in the tension in his neck, jaw; he looked uncomfortable, _physically_ uncomfortable.

“Okay, cool. Long day. See you in the morning.”

He nodded stiffly and took the stairs two at a time.

* * *

The second time it happened, a couple weeks later, she suspected _something_ was up. They’d eaten dinner, and she needed to decompress a bit, but reading wasn’t doing it. So she went into the laundry room that doubled as her personal yoga studio and unrolled her mat. It was still fairly early.

Pressing out the tension of the day, she focused on her breathing and tried to ignore the sounds of her roommate moving around the kitchen and putting away dishes.

She’d just moved into downward dog when she spotted him—from between her thighs—step into the room by the washing machine.

“Sorry—I didn’t … Lieutenant.”

She smiled, upside down, holding the position and indulging in the stretch. “What’s up, Crane?”

“I wanted ….” He was looking everywhere but at her. “I am going to retire for the evening.”

She straightened out of the pose and turned to face him. He tended to stay up late, and, even after only a couple of weeks, their goodnights tended to linger. They’d ease out of the day together. A routine. But like the one time before, he looked flushed and slightly ill. “You feeling okay?”

“Yes, quite.”

“You should watch how much milk you’re drinking. Maybe ease up on the MSG, too.”

He looked confused a moment, but pushed passed it. “Right, well. Goodnight, Lieutenant. Sweet dreams.”

What was with the stiff formality? “Yeah, you too.”

* * *

The third time, he simply disappeared up the stairs without a word. It was a quiet, rainy Sunday, and they’d settled in to watch the Patriots. Crane thought football was preposterous, but was oddly delighted by the very fact that a team called the New England Patriots existed. It wasn’t really her thing—baseball was—but she nestled onto the couch with a case file, swung her feet up, and pressed her back against his side.

At the half, Abbie had gone to wash chip grease off her hands, and when she’d returned to the living room, he was gone.

_Guess nature calls._

But he hadn’t returned by the time the game resumed. She muted it, figuring he’d come back down eventually.

Then she heard the shower come on.

* * *

The fourth time, there was no denying it. It was _right there,_ hanging—well, not really hanging, but _standing—_ between them. The house alarm went off at 4:30 in the morning, and they’d both sprung from bed—Abbie with gun drawn and Crane with a long sword.

The intruder, fortunately, was neither demon nor burglar, but a raccoon that had gotten trapped in the garage. Forty-five seconds and the damn thing was out.

Only as they made their way back into the house did they realize how _little_ they were wearing.

How little his flannel pajama pants covered.

How obscenely erect he was.

There was no hiding it. She knew it. He knew it. There was no way that she could pretend not to notice.

“I’m sorry.” He set the sword on the kitchen counter, and his fingers danced wildly at his sides. “Um, forgive me, Lieutenant. I have—”

“It’s okay, Crane.” She cut him off, and her eyes flit to it again, pressing her lips together and trying to play it cool. “Morning, systemic arousal. Look, I’m awake. You can … go ahead and take the shower first.”

She watched him walk away, the lean muscles in his back bunched with tension, and sank against the island when he was safely out of sight.

She could forgive him for his arousal, but she couldn’t forgive herself for her own. 

_Natural reaction,_ she tried to tell herself as she reached for the coffee pot to rinse it out, ignoring the wetness and pulsing between her legs. It wasn’t anything she invited. _Just a natural reaction._

* * *

The fifth time it happened, she was _pissed._ It was late, she was home, Crane was on his first date with Zoe—the one she’d pushed him into—and she was just seething. Not at her partner, but at Danny and her sister. And Joey. And Corbin. And this Nevins guy. For all the monsters that she had to fight and careful, careful juggling of her duties as FBI agent and supernatural solider, it was her goddamn reckless family that fucked things up.

So when she heard the key in the door signaling Crane’s arrival home, she didn’t even bother trying to mask her irritation.

“Oh, Lieutenant!” He caught her mood and bee-lined for her. “Are you all right?”

“Long fucking day, Crane. How was your date?”

“Illuminating.” He studied her face a moment, then glanced at the closed file and the empty lowball next to it on the bar. “Something happen at work?”

“Ask her on a second one?”

“You’re avoiding my inquiries.”

“And you, mine. Good fences, Crane.” It wasn’t hard to push him away, as much as he resisted it.

He looked like he was going to argue, but instead blinked very slowly and nodded.

“Ah, well. _Good fences,_ indeed.” He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss in her hair before she could even register what he was doing. She froze, every muscle tensing.

“Goodnight, Lieutenant.” He slipped away before she could find her voice.

Later, as she readied herself for bed, she heard him. Low grunts from his bedroom—his bedroom, not the guest bedroom, not anymore—advertised unambiguously what sort of thing he’d retreated into solitude to do. It wasn’t like she didn’t know, but he wasn’t usually quite this reckless. _Must have been a good date._ Oh, God, what would they do if he wanted to bring Zoe back here?

A surprising sadness settled into her chest at the thought, burrowing in beside her earlier anger—her sense of betrayal. It’d been a long time since she’d felt so alone.

* * *

The sixth time … the sixth time, she walked in on him.  


	2. Chapter 2

_The sixth time … the sixth time, she walked in on him._

Old habits died hard. When she lived alone, she always kept the upstairs bathroom door shut. So when it was shut, and Crane’s bedroom door was shut, and it was early Saturday morning, and the light was off … well, she assumed the bathroom was empty.

Maybe the fact that she hadn’t had her coffee yet contributed to her hazy judgment.

Why she erred didn’t matter; what mattered was that the damn bathroom _wasn’t_ empty.

She swung the door wide open and there was her partner, with cock in one hand, braced against the shower’s tile wall with the other.

For a fleeting moment, she just stood dumbly in the doorway, the erotic tableaux she was witnessing overwhelming all of her senses.

He appeared too far gone to readily stop, thrusting erratically into his fist. Why was she not backing away? Why was she not running down the hall, into her own room, slamming the door, putting as much distance between herself and _this_ as she could?

He turned to look at her from under the curtain of hair that fell over his forehead. Each second turned impossibly long.

_Fuck._

_Fuck._

“ _Fuck._ ” She finally found her voice, although it was a weak, sputtering croak. “Oh my God, I’m … I’m sorry, Crane. I’m … _fuck._ Sorry.”

But even as the apology fell from her lips, he was cumming over his long fingers, into the tub, a low moan breaking into the space where her own rambling had stopped.

There were seven labored breaths as he came down; she counted. On the eighth, he murmured, “Lieutenant.”

She swallowed. The way he looked—the sheen of sweat on his skin, the lean lines of sinew that gave him form without bulk, the surprisingly round curve of his ass, the slightly less surprising heft of his cock—was one of the purest _and_ one of the filthiest things she had ever seen.

“I’ll let you clean up.”

“Wait.” He pushed off the wall and turned fully toward her, shaking his hair off of his face.

“You should know ….  No, you _must_ know. Abbie, I think only of you.”

Well, there was no running from this now. The inevitable was arriving today. In her bathroom. At 7AM on a cold Saturday morning. Him already naked. 

But he said nothing further. 

“So. Okay.” _Deep breaths._ “I guess this is the reckoning.”

“Indeed it seems. Now, if you don’t— ”

“Crane, I do.” God help her, she did. And she was having a hard time coming up with reasons she _shouldn’t_. Not with everything laid bare like this. Fuck the goddamn fences. “I _do._ ” 

He stepped out of the tub to move toward her, and if she were any less floored by this turn of events, she would have laughed at his odd, gangly grace and the presence of a rare, goofy grin that showed his teeth.

“You’re certain?”

She nodded, and curled her lips up in a smile of her own. “Yeah. I am.”

He stopped so close that she could feel the heat radiating off of him. “Because if you’re not ….”

“Shut _up._ ” She reached out and closed the gap between them, dancing her fingers along his ribs and enjoying the involuntary jump of his muscles in response. “Partners in all things, right?”

“ _Except_ bowling. I have never seen you fail so miserably at any endeavor.”

“Yeah? At least I looked hot doing it.”

He dropped his gaze to her breasts, straining as they were against the camisole she’d slept in. “You were a vision.”

“Didn’t seem to think so at the time.”

“I feared I’d be unable to control myself if the words were spoken. How was I to know this reality could obtain?” He traced the line of her collarbone with his thumb and, goddammit, she _shuddered_ under his touch.

“I don’t know—could have asked?”

“You seemed so reluctant to bear again the yoke of our duties as Witnesses, I thought …”

“I don’t think _this_ part is in the Bible, anyway. Think we’re on our own here.”

He hummed and bumped the tip of his nose against hers, bending awkwardly to find the right angle. The sooner they were horizontal, Abbie thought, the better. “Some scholars suggest, Miss Mills, that—”

She cut him off with a kiss.


End file.
